Again he looked hurt 'You're not looking at it properly, ma'am. Every so often we have a big load of tourists dumped on us. They stay awhile, then they go away and we have no rent coming in at all. And you'd be surprised how these cold nights nibble away at a house. We can't build the way the Martians could."

Hazel gave up. "Is that season discount you mentioned good from now to Venus departure?"

"Sorry, ma'am. It has to be the whole season." The next favor­able time to shape an orbit for Venus was ninety-six Earth-standard days away - ninety-four Mars days - whereas the 'whole season' ran for the next fifteen months, more than half a Martian year before Earth and Mars would again be in a position to permit a minimum-fuel orbit.

"We'll take it by the month. May I borrow your stylus? I don't have that much cash on me."

Hazel felt better after dinner. The Sun was down and the night would soon be too bitter for any human not in a heated suit, but inside Casa Mañana it was cozy, even though cramped. Mr. d'Avril, for an extra charge only mildly extortionate, had consented to plug in television for them and Hazel was enjoy­ing for the first time in months one of her own shows. She noted that they had rewritten it in New York, as usual, and, again as usual, she found the changes no improvement. But she could recognise some of the dialogue and most of the story line.

That Galactic Overlord - he was a baddy, he was! Maybe she should kill him off again.

They could try to find a cheaper place tomorrow. At least as long as the show kept up its audience rating the family wouldn't starve, but she hated to think of Roger's face when he heard what rent he was paying. Mars! All right to visit, maybe, but no place to live. She frowned.

The twins were whispering in their own cubicle about some involved financial dealing; Meade was knitting quietly and watching the screen. She caught Hazel's expression. "What were you thinking about, Grandmother?"

"I know what she's thinking about!" announced Lowell.

"Ifyou do, keep it to yourself. Nothing much, Meade - that pipsqueak clerk. Imagine the nerve of him, saying I couldn't pack a gun!"

The twins started out to storm the marts of trade next morn­ing after breakfast Hazel cautioned them. "Be back in time for dinner. And try not to commit any capital crimes."

"What are they here?"

"Um, let me see. Abandonment without shelter... pollution of the water supply... violation of treaty regulations with the natives - I think. that's about all."

"Murder?"

"Killing is largely a civil matter here - but they stick you for the prospective earnings of your victim for whatever his life expectancy was. Expensive. Very expensive, if the prices we've run into are any guide. Probably leave you indentured the rest of your life."

"Hmm - We'll be careful. Take note of that, Pol. Don't kill anybody."

"You take note of it. You're the one with the bad temper."

"Back sharp at six, boys. Have you adjusted your watches?"

"Pol slowed his down; I'm leaving mine on Greenwich rate."

"Sensible."

"Pol!" put in Lowell. "Cas! Take me along!"

"Can't. do it, sprout. Business."

"Take me! I want to see a Martian. Grandma Hazel, when am I going to. see a Martian?"

She hesitated. Ever since an unfortunate but instructive inci­dent forty years earlier a prime purpose of the planetary government had been to keep humans as far away from the true Martians as possible - tourists most especially. Lowell had less chance of getting his wish than a European child visiting Manhattan would have of seeing an American Indian. "Well, Lowell, it's like this -The twins left hastily, not wishing to be drawn into what was sure to be a fruitless debate.

They soon found the street catering to the needs of prospec­tors. They picked a medium-sized shop displaying the sign of Angelo & Sons, Ltd., General Outfitters, which promised 'Bed-rolls, Geiger Counters, Sand Cycles, Assaying Service, Black-Light Lamps, Firearms, Hardware-Ironmongery - Ask for It; We've Got It or Can Get It'.

Inside they found a single shopkeeper leaning against a counter while picking his teeth and playing with something that moved on the counter top. Pollux glanced curiously at it; aside from the fact that it was covered with fur and seemed to be roughly circular, he could not make out what it was. Some sort of Martian dingus probably. He would investigate later - business first.

The shopkeeper straightened up and remarked with profes­sional cheer, "Good morning, gentlemen. Welcome to Mars."

"How did you know?" asked Castor.

"Know what?"

"That we had just gotten here."

"Eh? That's hard to say. You've still got some free fall in your walk and - oh, I don't know. Little things that add up automatically. You get to know."

Pollux shot Castor a glance of warning; Castor nodded. This man's ancestors, he realised subconsciously, had plied the Mediterranean, sizing up customers, buying cheap and selling dear. "You're Mr. Angelo?"

"I'm Tony Angelo. Which one did you want?"

"Uh, no one in particular, Mr. Angelo. We were just looking around."

"Help yourselves. Looking for souvenirs?"

"Well, maybe."

"How about this?" Mr. Angelo reached into a box behind him and pulled out a battered face mask. "A sandstorm mask with the lenses pitted by the sands of Mars. You can hang it up in your parlor and tell a real thiller about how it got that way and how lucky you are to be alive. It won't add much to your baggage weight allowance and I can let you have it cheap - I'd have to replace the lenses before I could sell it to the trade."

Pollux was beginning to prowl the stock, edging towards the bicycles; Castor decided that he should keep Mr. Angelo engaged while his brother picked up a few facts, "Well, I don't know," he replied. "I wouldn't want to tell a string of lies about it"

"Not Lies, just creative storytelling. After all, it could have happened - it did happen to the chap that wore it; I know him. But never mind." He put the mask back. "I've got some honest-to-goodness Martian gems, only K'Raath HimseIf knows how old - but they are very expensive. And I've got some others that can't be told from the real ones except in a laboratory under polarised light; they come from New Jersey and aren't expensive at all. What's your pleasure?"

"Well, I don't know," Castor repeated, "Say Mr. Angelo, what is this? At first I thought it was a fur cap; now I see its alive"

Castor pointed to the furry heap on the counter. It was slowly slithering toward the edge.

The shopkeeper reached out and headed it back to the middle. "That? That's a "flat cat"."

""Flat cat?""

"It has a Latin name but I never bothered to learn it." Angelo tickled it with a forefinger; it began to purr like a high-pitched buzzer. It had no discernible features, being merely a pie-shaped mass of sleek red fur a little darker than Castor's own hair. "They're affectionate little things and many of the sand rats keep them for pets - a man has to have someone to talk to when he's out prospecting and a flat cat is better than a wife because it can't talk back. It just purrs and snuggles up to you. Pick it up."

Castor did so, trying not seem gingerly about it The flat cat promptly plastered itself to Castor's shirt, fattened its shape a little to fit better the crook of the boy's arm, and changed its purr to a low throbbing which Castor could feel vibrate in his chest. He looked down and three beady little eyes stared trust-fully back up at him, then closed and disappeared completely. A little sigh interrupted the purrs and the creature snuggled closer.